


these rarely tired lights

by mondaycore



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Las Vegas, M/M, Sexual Content, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21755431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/pseuds/mondaycore
Summary: (though there isn’t exactly aright sideof town, is there? it’s thecirclesof hell, right? and circles have no sides, last he checked?)
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Daniel Ricciardo
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	these rarely tired lights

**Author's Note:**

> i’d planned and am still planning to take a writing break for the winter, but i’m not about to let the vegas thing go unanswered — and seeing as my only contributions to this fandom are “dumb crime AUs” and “shitfaced daniel ricciardo POV” … this is solidly the latter.
> 
> this is more weird and probably unintelligible than it is explicit ("but moooom monday's prioritizing concept over style over substance againnnn"), but please mind the tags regardless. title by a7x.

And so maybe he’s been awake for a day and a half, and so maybe he’s been sober for none of it, and so maybe he’s let himself wander the streets of this fever-dream of a city with no intentions at all except to let things happen as they might. And so maybe now he’s found himself in some strip club on the wrong side of town (though there isn’t exactly a _ right side _ of town, is there? it’s the _ circles _ of hell, right? and circles have no sides, last he checked?) watching the prettiest, cruellest-looking young thing he’s ever seen in his life take the stage, sizing up the crowd like he intends to devour them all alive.

And so what of it? _ Viva Las Vegas, baby_. This place doesn’t give a shit who or what you are so much as it revels in the magnitude of the sins you commit, and if there’s anywhere, anytime to commit a series of truly unrepentable ones, it’s here and now, Daniel thinks, watching the spectacle reveal itself much as divinity is revealed to the faithful — except it’s the exact opposite of that, it’s damnation, it’s the seventh seal opening as the music starts to play.

And so the sharp-smirking dancer, christened _ Charlieboy _ by the DJ, winds mesmeric around with and along to the druggy, serpentine song creeping miasmatic through the perfumed air, working the pole, sinuous, seductive, bathed in the artificial hellfire of the violently red stage lights. Daniel watches unblinking, in rapture, enraptured, caught in the throes of delirium descended, transfixed to his seat. Around this boy-dancer snake-charmer, the world falls apart into one long lingering time-delayed frame-by-frame afterimage of dark hair, milky skin, sly eyes, hard angles, light glinting off the patent leather sheathing his legs and the metal ring on the collar encircling his throat, the creature on stage a shifting play of shadow and color, half of this world, half ephemeral, daydream, nightmare, hallucination.

And so he’s held under in the murky depths of captivation for what feels like an eternity, and when he finally resurfaces for air, shaking off the opiate stupor, Daniel finds that the music has stopped and the house lights are up and the club is now utterly quiet and empty. And so he wonders: how _ long _ has he been here, and what time is it, and what _ day _ is it, and surely he’s needed somewhere else by now?, because he always is, always seems to be —

_ Don’t worry about it_, Charlieboy says, suddenly perched in his lap, all this opulent and vicious beauty splayed out against him saying, _ let’s go have some fun instead _ , the indefinite sibilant lilt of an accent flickering at the edges of his voice. He smiles like a guillotine about to drop and leans in — there’s a press of lips to Daniel’s neck and a scrape of teeth against his skin, although it feels much, much sharper than teeth ought to be, and it ignites like flashpaper the _ want _ that’s been squirming in his guts since Charlieboy had first slunk onto stage_. _And so Daniel plunges right back under, hears himself say as if from miles above the stratosphere, rote-dumb, lust-stupid, _ fuck yeah, baby, let’s go have some fun._

And so suddenly Las Vegas is far behind them, glinting in the rearview before it winks out of existence like a magician’s showstopper illusion, replaced by miles and miles of sunblasted desert whipping by as he rockets down the arrow-straight freeway, chasing the unwavering vanishing point that marks where asphalt meets horizon. Charlieboy’s looking like a dream beside him in the passenger seat, his hand on Daniel’s thigh slipping under the hem of his shorts, inching higher and higher, sharp nails tracing tantalizingly over his skin — the speedometer of the Lambo clocking ninety, ninety-five, Daniel barely able to control himself for the thought of Charlieboy’s fingers on him, his devil of a smirk, God, his _ mouth _, one-hundred, one-ten, keeping a death grip on the steering wheel so he doesn’t lose control of this sleek roaring beast of a car and kill them both.

And so finally, a hundred miles out to some nowhere place called Milagro, Daniel swerves the car to the side of the road, and before they’ve even skidded to a stop he’s lunged across the center console and pressed Charlieboy back against the door, the sweet and searing heat of Charlieboy’s mouth on his like a mainline hit of cocaine — but he’s greedy, it’s not enough, so Daniel hauls Charlieboy out of the car and spreads him out across the hood, holds him down and fucks him, the keys still in the ignition and the engine still running, the purr of the car rumbling through his body. It should feel blasphemous, what they’re doing, open air, broad daylight, but the desert around them is silent and still, and the sky curving above them is blank and indifferent, and nothing feels real except his own body and this fantastical, obscene, glittering creature moaning beneath him, writhing in ecstasy against the hot, shining metal.

Charlieboy throws his head back and shudders as he comes, gets some of it on the hood of the car, but he just grins lazily and rolls over and licks it up — _oh, fuck, _ Daniel says, and then _ oh, FUCK!_, because there’s a long serpent’s tongue flicking out from between Charlieboy’s lips, _what the fuck, what the fuck, oh shit, __what the fuck, who are you, _what_ are you_ —

_I'm everything you wanted me to be_, Charlieboy says, and smiles, curved fangs flashing bone-white and wicked. _Don’t get squeamish, Daniel, we’re just starting to have some fun_. And in all his life, Daniel’s never learned the difference between a promise and a threat — but he gets the distinction _ now_, too little and far too late, as Charlieboy’s eyes bleed ink-black, ink-glossy from lid to lid, and so he pulls Daniel down close, back down into the drowning depths, his pretty, pretty mouth a streak of blood-crimson, carmine, alizarin, vermillion, madder, madness, mania.

**Author's Note:**

> [places this gently on the ‘i don’t like this, but i’m tired of looking at it’ shelf] [checks off ‘demon strippers, but make it pretentious’ on my to-do list]
> 
> for the curious: every strip club scene i write, i write with [this song in mind.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_xTZxcFSe4) additionally, the town of milagro does exist in the american southwest, but it’s nowhere near las vegas. we'll pretend that's intentional Because Demon Strippers, and not just for the sake of a throwaway thematic reference.
> 
> the usual: this is entirely fiction of my own creation (or god almighty i sure hope it is), please do not get the real world or any real people here mentioned involved, and please do not link this work out to any other public platforms or social media. thank y’all dear readers as always for being the very very best, and i hope you enjoyed this ... whatever this is!


End file.
